


Worth One Thousand Words

by MrsAlderaan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsAlderaan/pseuds/MrsAlderaan
Summary: Hermione Granger is able to see what her photographs see. There are no possible psychological consequences, right?





	Worth One Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> I had a little writer's block awhile back and I was writing a prompt trying to get back into the groove when this little fic came about. It is exactly 1000 words. Enjoy and thanks for reading!  
> ~MA

To whom it may concern:

As I stand on the precipice of my life, I realize someone should know of my story- even a stranger will do.

My story begins before I even knew I would fight in a war- before I knew what war was. I remember the moment in vivid detail. I've ingrained the moment in my memory through the years by recounting it a multitude of times to optometrists, neurological doctors and child psychologists. Before you dismiss me and call me a loon, sit and hear out my story.

It was my first day of kindergarten; I was just a normal girl getting ready to make that journey through school for the first time. If luck would have it, I would pass and grow up to be a normal and well-adjusted adult in a decent-waged job with a house and two kids. However, luck was not on my side. In fact, luck ran away the moment that the camera in my father's hands went SNAP. My father took a Polaroid picture on that morning. You know, the kind that comes out of the camera black? He turned it away from the light for a minute, and, when he looked at it, I saw double.

Being a five year-old, I couldn't quite explain what happened. "Daddy!" I shouted immediately in surprise. This, of course, caused him to look away from the picture and shove it in his pocket relieving the situation. He ran up to me and lifted me in his arms.

"What is it, my own?" He asked me using my childhood nickname and twirling a piece of my wildly curly hair and looking at me with his deep, concerned brown orbs.

"Daddy, I just saw two of you. Except one was different." I tried to explain while wildly waving my hands, in my youth unable to elaborate further. Now, let me make it clear right now exactly what I saw as that five year-old because my description at that time definitely leaves something to be desired.

In that moment when I had double vision, I was, in fact seeing my father through my own eyes as well as the eyes of my now-developed picture. One vision I had of my father was from where I was standing through my own eyes; I was approximately five feet away standing anxiously in line with the other kindergartners. Then, when my father glanced at the picture, I saw through the eyes of the portrait. I was maybe a foot away- It's hard to tell at what stage of degradation my father's eyesight was at that time. Also, he held the picture in his right hand, so it was not dead center of his face. It was very disconcerting for a five year-old.

Hell, I'm just turning 18 now, and it's still incredibly disconcerting.

My father took his hand from my hair and put it under my chin. He lifted my eyes up to look at his; I held his gaze. Even at such a young age, I knew he was looking for the truth in my eyes. Now, I sometimes think that my father was a squib. Maybe his only talent was for legilimency, but who is to know now? With him long dead, it truly is a moot point.

The eye-contact stand-off only lasted a moment, and, afterwards, he put me down and went to talk to the teacher. When he came back, he smiled and exclaimed, "Let's go, my own. It seems we have a doctor to go visit today."

That day began what would become almost five years of poking and prodding by medical professionals. What's worse is that not a single one could figure out even an iota of the problem. Or begin to explain it.

During those five years, I never began school. My parents took me to doctors across the globe and home schooled me the best they could. This began a lifetime passion for learning and books that would never be quenched to this day.

The moment Minerva McGonagall told me I was a witch changed everything. It would be the day that all the pieces came together. My family was relieved. My problem wasn't medical; it was magical. The doctors were doing their job correctly, but they couldn't see or even begin to understand a problem of the magical sort.

When Professor McGonagall had finished explaining everything to me, I asked about my problem. She brought me to St. Mungo's that day. When they told me that what I had was a "gift", I almost laughed in their faces. They clearly didn't understand the extent of my curse- to see through the eyes of every portrait of me that currently sees the light of day. Why in the world would I want to embrace this as a gift? I want it to go away!

When I was returned home by my future teacher, I gave my parents the news- I was different. Different than most, and nothing would change that. My parents took down all of the pictures of me in the house that day. It wouldn't be many years more until they considered me as anything more than a bill and a tax write off.

Every now and then, I would get a flash of one of their faces- mostly my Dad's, but, as my father slowly lost his eyesight in his later years, I saw his face less and less.

On the last day of my parent's lives, I watched as Lord Voldemort- having learned of my "gift"- killed my parents as a death eater held up my portrait. To this day, the image of my father looking directly at my kindergarten Polaroid is burned into my mind.

Of course, you, reader, should know that we won the war, but at what cost? I am on a chocolate frog card.

I can't concentrate. I can hardly see out of my own eyes.

This needs to end.

Regards,

Hermione Granger


End file.
